FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Re the English writing on a very French wall: "I won't be offended by that," I tell my son, on noticing the "Jesus was a Skater, Jesus was a Punk" graffiti (...by the punk and skater artists, who seem to claim Him as their own).
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Thank you for the fun, delicious, charming, and quirky "Favorite French Words" that many of you shared in the comments box on Monday!
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une égratignure (ay-gra-tee-nyur) noun, feminine

   : scratch, scrape

Audio File:
Listen to my son, Max, who talks about his injuries (more, in today's story...) Download MP3 file

Maman, ce n'est que des égratignures, des petites blessures.
Mom, they are only scrapes, small wounds.

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

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"Pourquoi tu pleures?"* the doctor asks, greeting Max. "Are you in pain?" With that, she begins to gently lift or press: his arms, his peau*--thoroughly examining her patient from head to toe.
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The doctor's skin is licorice black. Her head of braids is tied back into a thick queue de cheval.* She has a charming gap between the two whitest front teeth that I have ever seen, second only to the whites of her eyes, which are soft with sympathy.
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Max answers that he is not in pain, apart from his lower right side. The doctor pushes on it again, and Max's eyes press tightly together confirming la douleur.* He was crying, he tells her, because he can't seem to remember the accident, only the parts leading up to it.
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The doctor nods her head; before she has a chance to give me her professional opinion, I share my own: "He is probably fine..."
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I still wonder if I have overreacted... ever since the split-second decision I took to bring him here to the ER... His dad, who had asked me to wait, had initially suspected that Max was just "doing the cinema"* or putting on an act, in order to get out of the big trouble he was currently in. For what my husband saw, beyond les égratignures*--beyond the scraped elbows and the cut and bloody knuckles, knees, shoulders and nose--was a kid putting on a show for sympathy--for distraction--after having broken the rules, in favor of a dangerous riding spree.
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Jean-Marc rightly sensed that Max's friends (who swore to us that Max had only fallen off his skateboard) were lying and, until he had all of the details, he was unable to make an informed decision as to what action to take next.
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As for me...  things were not moving quickly enough!--not since Max was returned to us, thanks to the  driver who had pulled over in time to pick up our son off the street, before accompanying all three boys to our house.
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The clock was ticking and I could no longer wait until the boys got their stories straight! Meantime, Max was in a daze, repeating the same words over and over again, pushing me away when I tried to contain him.
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Enough was enough. What were we doing here at home?! Why hadn't Max been driven directly to the ER?! And why were we still interrogating these boys?! What was the use of grilling my son's friends when, meantime, Max was in distress? We needed to get moving! And so, when Jean-Marc went to call the other parents, I ordered the boys to help me get Max into the car, before the two of us sped off, direction les urgences.*
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(It was only a matter of minutes before Jean-Marc got the information that he needed; once he learned that Max had not only fallen off his skateboard, but had fallen off while holding on to the back of his friend's motor scooter, he then believed that the injuries might be more serious, and that a professional examination was in order.)

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The doctor interrupts my apologetic explanation, about how I may have overreacted.
"It is not the dad or the mom whom I listen to, but the child." And while I might have taken offense, somehow her words relieve me. My child is in her hands now, and I can quit obsessing about whether or not I have made the right decision.
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"Your son's repetition--the fact that he is asking the same questions over and over again--this, and the L'hématome* on his head--is a sign of traumatisme cranien.*  We will need to do a scanner cérébral.* First, your son will receive une perfusion.* Then, after the scanner and the radiographie* we will have an ambulance transport him to the hospital in Avignon."
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Ambulance? Children's hospital? This is the last time I will ever doubt my maternal instincts!

...But my husband, aka "Papa Poule,"* has healthy instincts of his own. After I have reported the information by telephone to Jean-Marc (who is home, meeting with the parent of the child riding the scooter...) he encourages me to wait and see what the scanner and the radio* will reveal. "He might not have to go to the children's hospital after all." I hope my husband is right.

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Five hours later and we are still at the ER. Max is feeling much better, good enough to correct my French as I respond to the doctor, who tells me that the scanner has come back "normal" and the X-rays show no head (or internal) injuries. The doctor apologizes for the wait, explaining that she wanted to keep Max under surveillance for a while, as a precaution.
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Things move quickly from this point on: a nurse hands Max a clear plastic cup, for a sample just to make sure there is no sang* in the urine. (Negative.) Another nurse cleans all of Max's wounds, bandaging them with gauze the size of a processed cheese wrapper. The application is so thorough and sterile--involving at least three instruments, including tongs--that I wonder whether I will be able to repeat the process from home in three days' time, when it will be necessary to change les pansements.* I decide that a mother's hands, cotton balls, and disinfectant will get us through the rest; the nurse assures me so.
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The doctor suggests my son have one more perfusion of Dolipran,* but Max tells her he is not in pain ... and would like to go home now. Permission granted, we are given the X-rays, the ordonnance,* and a paper that reads "Surveillance à domicile en cas de traumatisme cranien chez un enfant."* (We are to wake up our son, two times, during the night, and contact the doctor in case of vomiting.)

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On the ride home Max tells me about the scanner, inside of which he went, after being told when and for how long to hold his breath, so as to remain completely still.
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"Mom," he says, "my nose never itched so bad!"
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My son makes me laugh and I think about what it's like, the urge to scratch, to interfere--yet to have to hold back. And it all brings me back to those inner instincts and the nagging need to follow them. This time I scratched that itch, followed that hunch; I may not have been right--but, boy, am I now relieved.

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Update: Three days later, and Max is almost back to his old self (just a little bit stiff when he walks). He'll begin his "jail sentence" for the virée, or joy ride, just as soon as his two-week arrêt de travail* is up... at which point he'd better be in shape enough to push the vacuum around this house, empty the poubelles,* and wash all the windows!

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Comments, corrections--or stories of your own--are always welcome and appreciated. Please use the comments box.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~
la salle (f) de déchoquage = shock room; pourquoi tu pleures? = why are you crying; la peau (f) = skin; la queue de cheval = poneytail; la douleur (f) = pain; doing the cinema (from "faire du cinéma") = to put on an act; une égratignure (f) = a scrape, scratch; les urgences (f,pl) = the emergency ward; un hématome (m) = bruise; le traumatisme (m) cranien = head trama; le scanner (m) cérébral (IRM [MRI] = imagerie par résonance) = brain scanner; une perfusion (f) = drip; une radiographie (f) = X-ray; une radio (f) = abbrev. for radiographie; Papa Poule = Father Hen; le sang (m) = blood; le pansement (m) = bandage, Dolipran = pain medication, see paracetamol; une ordonnance (f) = prescription; Surveillance à domicile en cas de traumatisme cranien chez un unfant = home surveillance in case of child head trama; un arrêt (m) de travail = sick leave; une poubelle (f) = garbage can/bin

A sneak preview of the upcoming photo gallery at Cinéma Vérite. Please don't miss it. Sign up for a contributing membership today!

Today's photo has nothing to do with le mot du jour -- not unless you want it to. Click to enlarge this image (...of one of our testy tournesols, in the front yard).
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furax (fyur-aks) adjective

    : livid, furious, hopping mad

synonym: furibard(e)

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A Day in a French Life... will continue on Wednesday. Meantime, please give us your favorite French word (or share your favorite French expression); click here to share it or to see the submitted words!

Merci beaucoup & à bientôt!

Kristin
PS: a slangy expression that I find amusing, and sometimes hear the French use, is "idem" [ee-dem]. It means "ditto".

Thé-totaling here at our wine farm. When life gives you empty wine bottles, make thé glacé.
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éclaboussement (ay-klah-boos-mahn) noun, masculine

    : splash (of water, color)

Audio File & Example Sentence
Listen to my daughter, Jackie, pronounce these French words:
Download MP3 file

Oubliant son jaune éclatant du début mars, le forsythia se couvre en juillet d'un éclaboussement de rouges orangés, de violets épiscopaux et de bleus lumineux. Forgetting its burst of yellow from the beginning of March, the forsythia covers itself in July with a splash of reddish orange, bishop violet, and luminous blue. --(see a picture) Le Forsythia en Juillet; Mediapart

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse
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WHAT'S TO LOVE ABOUT SUMMERTIME?

The "têtu"* tournesols,* turned the wrong way, at the head of our driveway.

The lone libellule* that loops high-n-low, the length (and the width) of our front patio.

My husband's cheery tune when he makes wine and cleans out the caveau.*
(He whistles "Hi ho hi ho it's off to work I go...")

The Fourth of July... when our first marriage knot was tied.

Les éclaboussements* in the piscine,* the sound of my girl laughing.

My son, his friends, their skates*... enjoying adolescence (not yet thinking about Saturday-night dates).

"Mediterranean maracas" shaking outside my window (I'm talking about those cigales* that never get sore throats.)

Ice cold thé glacé* brought out on a tray.

Cool night air through an open window, moonlight shining on my husband's back.

Le chapeau en paille*... above a smile, toothy and wide.

A summertime storm that brings provençal pluie.*

My beau-frère's BBQ sardines, yes siree!

Lavender wands, the mama bird's song, flip flops, Marcel* tops...

...les pieds nus*... and what about you? What do you love about summertime?

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Your turn to list the things that you love about summertime. Thank you for sharing in the comments box.

The highlighted links, above, correspond to stories from the archives. Check them out if you have a moment.  You will also find a recent painting by my mom, Jules (see "le chapeau en paille"...).
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~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~
têtu(e) = stubborn, obstinate, le tournesol (m) = sunflower; la libellule (f) = dragonfly; le caveau (m) = wine cellar; un éclaboussement (m) = splash; la piscine (f) = pool; le skate (m) = skateboard; la cigale (f) = cicada; le thé (m) glacé = iced tea; le chapeau (m) en paille = straw hat; la pluie (f) = rain; les pieds (m) nus = bare feet
 

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We met near the WWI memorial. Her family name was engraved into the sad stone tribute. Read on, in today's story column.

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entrelacer (ontr-lah-say) verb

    to interlace, intertwine

Sound File & Example Sentence
  Listen to my daughter, Jackie, pronounce these French words:
Download Entrelacer

On a marché, mon amie et moi, les bras entrelacés en amitié.
We walked, my friend and I, arms interlaced in friendship.


A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

Angels abound around every corner and if you are lucky you will meet them when you walk in love--my momma always showed me--with grace in your gait....
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It's as easy as this: One minute you are pulling into the parking lot of an unfamiliar town--smoothing your hair... toning down your stars and stripes appearance, so as to fit in, hopefully, as a Frenchwoman--
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and the next minute you are walking, arm in arm, with a stranger twice your age, chatting like old friends, of bygone days.

(...In the French town of St-Maurice Sur Eygues...)

"You haven't aged a bit!" Madame assures me. I look over to the elderly woman whose delicate arm is laced through my own. I notice how the sun sets off her silver curls. Looking into her pupils, time is erased. We walk on, this time as two venturesome girls.
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We had picked each other up halfway down the street, just past the old, stone lavoir* where, unbeknownst to me, another chance meeting was about to take place, some fifteen minutes into the future, in between meeting Madame, and taking photos of an old Chateau up on the hill...
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Presently, I studied Madame. I noticed she'd put on a jewel-toned scarf, noticed how it clashed, disarmingly, with her faded house-dress. Now this was a woman with whom I could unpack my heart.
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"And so we meet again!" the woman exclaimed, cheerfully. Indeed we had met some ten minutes earlier, for the first time, after I had set out from le parking* to shoot the village. Shoot it not as it was shot at in WWI; I hoped only to capture its "colorful façade," not its people, not against their will.
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It was not far from a WWI monument that Madame struck up the first of our two conversations. That is when I had explained that I was taking photos of the village, to share with others who love France, as I do.  Madame smiled and there began our exchange: we talked about politics, architecture, the mundane ménage* that never goes away, but gets harder day, by aging day. We chatted, ditching traffic now and then (occasionally, a car would drive up or down the country lane, causing me to pull Madame forward, or to push her gently aside, depending. But Madame ignored the danger, content, instead, to focus on the rewarding risk of talking to a stranger).
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"And so we meet again," Madame was now saying.
"Oh... yes," I answered, afraid of making Madame feel obligated. It seemed she was now on her way somewhere--what with that pretty dress-up scarf--and I didn't want to hold her back.
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"Yes," I repeated. "I'm just taking a few more photos. I have to go and get my daughter now...
"Daughter? You have children?"
"Yes, an eleven- and a fourteen-year-old. Une fille et un garçon."*
"Oh, said, Madame, and that is when she flattered me:
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"You certainly don't look old enough!"
"I am 41."
"Ce n'est pas vrai!"*
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I was embarrassed by the first fruits of flattery: red cheeks, warm heart. If I didn't stop Madame now, I might be tempted to listen, un-haltingly. I reveled for a little instant longer (and what a delight and change this was from having one's age over-guessed, not that I have ever once asked to be judged -- but that does not stop others from offering, from accidentally tacking on "time" to a growing collection of facial lines).
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"Et vous, Madame... Quel age avez-vous?"* Again, it is a question I don't dare ask (so as not to be asked) les dames d'un certain âge*... but this dame was different. This dame was divine and the heavens were whispering to me to inquire.
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"Quatre-vingt quatre,"* Madame replied.
"You don't say!"
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And on we walked and talked, helping each other along, now light on our feet: Madame on my arm, my own beneath hers, l'entrelacement des âmes et des dames.*

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Post note: I gave Madame my calling card, with my web address, but I'm not sure she has internet. I also began to doubt that she has traveled beyond the Drôme... for when I named my home town (not ten miles from her own) Madame looked at me quizzically, as if I had just answered "Sicily". I realized then, that I was in the privileged presence of the venerable past... where people were content to know their neighbors, without the nagging, nefast need.. for newness.

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Then again... given Madame's curious and energetic disposition, who's to say she's not penning her own blog post, at this very instant? In which case, I hope she is having as much fun in the recounting of this tranche de vie* as I have had writing my version of our story.  Merci, Madame.
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Comments, corrections--and stories of your own--are always welcome and appreciated in the comments box.
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~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~
le lavoir (m) = washing place; le parking (m) = car park; le ménage (m) = housework; une fille et un garçon = a girl and a boy; quatre-vingt-quatre = eighty-four; Et vous, Madame. Quel âge avez-vous; ce n'est pas vrai = And you, Madame. How old are you? It isn't true; les dames d'un certain âge = women "of a certain age"; l'entrelacement (m) des âmes et des dames = the intertwining of women and souls; une tranche de vie = slice of life

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